Wallflower at a Sex Party

Chapter 5: Bad Étiquette

“I am a wallflower at a sex party,” he confirms, the levity in his tone discordant with the heaviness of his hazel eyes. I ask him if he remembers me. He doesn’t. Or does he? Only vaguely. We are alike. It is not a meeting of kindred spirits, it is a meeting of shared disillusionment. We are at the party without being at the party. Looking in. Becoming wallpaper. Recognizing one another's outsider complex and reluctantly reconciling this with our obvious craving for depth of connection.

He does not need much urging to tell me more. He is longing for someone to listen, and as he confides I feel the tenderization of emotional resonance I have been missing all night. The foreplay of shared misery; the possibility of offering each other some small semblance of respite from the love we lost. A distraction from the pain. The romance of a life affirming how seldom we receive what we desire. Even here. Even now. Even as we cross paths in a house full of people hellbent on hedonistic revelry.

“I haven’t been to something like this in years,” he begins, “I used to party all the time. Bar rooms full of gorgeous half-naked women. I was the guy on stage. We would get drunk and high and someone would pull me off into the side room to fuck. I barely remember half of those nights. But this is different. I’m old. I’m tired. I’m not having fun. This doesn’t feel like what I need. I don't know what I need.”

He does look older than I remember. Wrinkles around his eyes, a thinning hairline, thickened midsection. Still handsome in a way that reminds me of the old Italian men I grew up with, who may lose their physic but never their virility, and certainly never their appreciation for a desirable woman.

He goes on to describe the confused state of his relationship status. Partnered over a decade. On again, off again. Currently off. He isn’t happy about it. Mostly non-monogamous. They’ve been through a lot. He has been a monster. He has been cruel to her when he breaks from reality, but the antipsychotics level him out. She has been cruel to him too, but has loved him unconditionally. He cannot remember any of the worst things he has done, but the people he loves can remember. It is a special kind of hell to lose your ability to feel things fully for the sake of not hurting the people you love. He has to be disciplined.

We are alone. It is quiet. “The lights are too bright,” I say. He gets up and turns off every switch he can find, and offers me a glass of water. My whole body exhales from the relief of the assault of fluorescence, the reliable replenishment of hydration. When he returns to his seat I ask him if I can lay my head against his shoulder. He opens his arms and I nestle myself against him, resting into the rise and fall of his chest. He is tense. I offer him gentleness. I feel him relax as we sink into intimate, innocent caressing. Devoid of any sexual energy; as comfortable as two old friends who have only just met. He goes on.

He has felt out of place all night. I am the only person who has approached him. We swap war stories. I tell him about the man who broke my heart. I tell him I am not having fun either, but things are improving now. He affirms. Yes, things are looking up. He meets my eyes.

“What would you like to do next?” he asks steadily.

I would like to fall in love. I am in love. I will never see him again.

“Let’s get in the hot tub,” I say, and I get the sense he would follow me anywhere.

Because he is decidedly more miserable than I am, I am beginning to enjoy myself. I now have a purpose; to seduce the wallflower at the sex party. To bring him back to the aliveness of the moment. To remind him he is part of things, he is part of us. I know it is harder for men to feel they are part of us, and I take my mission seriously. I am turned on by the role I have taken in his night, by the role he has taken in mine. Real life role play. Existential kink. No sex toys required, only heavy handed meaning making.

It is cold outside and I know I will freeze without my towel, so I quickly retrieve it from the messy pile of forgotten duffel bags in the spare room. People always over pack. I would be surprised if anyone sleeps in an actual bed tonight, let alone remembers their toothbrush. I let him lead the way so he doesn’t see me as I drop my panties and cardigan to the floor and expose myself to the elements.

The back deck is pitch black, and the hot tub is occupied by the shadowed figures of three people nursing drinks and cracking jokes. The heat of the water feels like ecstasy in contrast to the slicing frigid air against my naked body. I want to purr as I sink beneath the surface and the warmth permeates my bones.

I try to pick up the threads of the conversation but I am distracted by the fact that the werewolf has positioned himself across from me. I want to keep close to him, to keep filling the void that cannot be filled. But before I can move towards him to see if he reciprocates my longing, an elderly woman to his left invades the space.

She is bawdy and drunk, talking loudly about her spiritual giftedness and superior intuition. She can barely contain her lust for the werewolf, and so she does not contain it. It spills over sloppily, like the beer in an overfull glass wobbling in her grip. She asks where he's been hiding all night, and he explains that he's not in the mood for sex. She interprets this as an opening for unsolicited life coaching, barrelling forward in her assumption that lack of desire is a problem that must be solved–that there surely must be something getting in the way of his desire, something he need only remove to know his unbridled carnal lust again. He tolerates her, barely. She asks if she can cozy up to him.

The rest of us are uncomfortable when he accepts out of shock and deeply conditioned politeness, clearly overriding his own consent in the bombardment of her violation. This is bad etiquette. At a sex party, ‘no’ is sacred. ‘No’ is never to be questioned, pursued, or persuaded. Lack of desire is not to be pathologized, and externally imposed pressure to be game is extremely taboo. She continues her clunky diagnostics, asking him a series of personal questions to determine his blockage. His responses are terse and cold, but she still doesn't get the hint.

“Can I sit on your lap?” she asks playfully. Finally, he reaches his limit.

“I don't want you to touch me, actually,” he snaps. This time, she hears him. She shrinks away, fumbling over an apology. He does not absolve her. The couple next to us gracefully changes the topic, and as we cover the transgression with superficial exchanges, the werewolf angrily removes himself from the hot tub and returns inside.

I feel a stab of empathy, the emptiness of the place where he sat. I wonder if he would rather be alone, but my instinct tells me it's okay to follow after him. The water slides down my body, and steam rises from my flesh as I try to locate my crumpled towel in the dark. It takes me a while to find it, and I worry he may have gone home by the time I am able to look for him.

I find him pacing in the dining area, huffing and puffing and snarling. When he sees me, he vents about her obtuseness. I validate, and tell him I was relieved when he stood up for himself. This seems to placate him. I ask him if he wants to return to the sofa, and he agrees.

I am at ease now, and the towel begins to loosen and unwrap, revealing my breasts and belly. He stares at me, enjoying the sight of me without any assumption, returning to our easy companionship and wholesome holding. We lay there for another hour or more, talking and resting, our breath syncing, our fingertips roaming. Slowly but surely, the first tendrils of familiarity form between us.

With this simple intimacy, my heart begins to open. As my heart opens, so do my legs. I begin to wonder what it would be like to kiss him? Mostly, though, I want to call it a night. Turn in early, fall asleep. But the last vestiges of annoyance have left him, and he asks me if I want to go upstairs and see how things are developing.

“Why not?” I say, smiling at him, “We're here, after all. We should at least enjoy the spectator sport.”

“Agreed,” he responds, “The show must go on.”

Together, we re-enter the temple. Companions in aloneness.

Artwork by Jessica Watts